Settling and Caged
by AgelessGrace
Summary: Diane and Philip McAdams perform a little investigating of their own after the events of Settling (ep. 11) and Caged (ep. 12). What they find changes the fates of not only themselves, but the Stonehaven Pack as well. Contains spoilers and changes the outcome of Ready (ep. 13). Reviews are love!
1. Aftermath

Elena was gone. Philip was in the hospital, obviously lying to the police regarding what had happened in his apartment. Their mother was ready to call the entire Canadian police force to go after Elena, blaming the blond for all this misery. Logan Jonsen, Elena's supposed cousin, was also gone, the townhome he shared with Rachel just as much a disaster as Philip's. In the blink of an eye, her best friend and everything connected to the woman, had just… vanished.

And there she sat, waiting.

Waiting for… what, exactly?

Diane had no idea, and that was what pissed her off more than anything. Elena should have been there in the hospital, holding her hand and praying that Phillip would make it through the surgery alive. She should be the one helping their panicked mother to offload the drama bomb she was harboring before anyone got sprayed with a napalm of furious hate. Instead, her mother was quietly pacing before the window, the very image of icy, controlled calm. One had fiddled with the ring on its chain around her neck, the wedding ring she had worn for thirty years before her husband, Diane's father, had passed away.

The ring she was hoping to give to Phillip when he proposed to Elena.

_"__I came as soon as I could." _

_Her mother raced towards her, the click-clack of her heels a welcomed sound.__Mother always wore those damned designer heels, and the sound of their eminent arrival usual caused widespread panic in the McAdam children.__But not today.__Not when she needed her mother.__Not when she needed anyone to comfort her._

_"__Glad you're here," she murmured into her mother's shoulder._

_"__What happened?"_

_Diane took a step back, wiping her eyes.__ "__It was a home invasion.__Philip was stabbed.__They just took him in for surgery."_

_"__Oh, my god—"_

_"__He's going to be fine, mother."_

_"__Dia—"_

_"__Mom," she said firmly.__ "__He's going to be fine._

_Her mother seemed to take that as gospel truth, some of the color returning to her panic-stricken face.__ "__W-what about Elena?__Is she okay?__Was she with him?"_

_"__I… I don't know.__She's, um, she's not answering her phone."_

And the debate raged from there, the need to call the police and put out a missing persons bulletin for Elena wrestling with something in Diane that told her not to call. Something she couldn't ignore. There had been… well… something about Clay when she'd met him. Something that a body made for sin and a mouth sculpted by demons hadn't been able to fully hide. Dangerous, that was the word. Dangerous in a way that made wild animals look safe in comparison.

She hadn't exactly feared for her life in his presence. No, something inside told her that he wasn't looking to hurt her. But there had been that exchange with the creep in the parking lot…

Diane closed her eyes, trying to blot out the image of Clay Danvers nearly ripping that dark-haired man out the car window by his throat. The menace in those growled words as he spoke, words she'd never forget. _Pete... Antonio… __almost killing Jeremy.__I've lost track of the reasons why I should kill you.  
There's nothing stopping me from ending this war right now._

Nothing, except her. Idiotically walking over to them, and demanding to know what was going on. Clay had jerked in surprise, those eyes hitting her with a dual hammer blow of undisguised rage before he could get it under control. The man in the car, whomever he had been, seized the moment to get the hell away from the mountain of vengeance that was Clayton Danvers.

It wasn't until she was alone at home that she realized what he had said. A sick sensation crept into her stomach, and a realization that it somehow made sense. Elena's secretiveness about everything, the random trips to this Stonehenge place or whatever, and the refusal to include herself or Philip in any aspect of her life that wasn't the present. They were all dangerous, those people in Elena's life. And whether or not Elena had kept herself and Philip in the dark as a protection, it was now a moot point.

The danger was here. And she was willing to lay good money on the odds that Philip wasn't attacked in a "random home invasion."

Diane folded her hands in her lap, the knuckles nearly white as she gripped her fingers tightly. She would NOT get up and pace like her mother. She would NOT open her mouth to anyone for fear that she'd spew out all that acidic hate in place of her mother. And heaven help her if Elena called…

The need to pace won, and she was up before she knew it. But she refused to let the tears fall, refused to give into the need to sob and sob and sob. This just couldn't be happening to their family. Hadn't they suffered enough with their father's death, and a mother that oftentimes made Cruella DeVille look warm and compassionate?

"Miss McAdams?"

Diane spun on her heel, heading towards the man in the white doctor's coat. He was most likely addressing their mother, but she had no patience for that. "Yes?"

"Your brother just came out of surgery. Everything went well. We expect him to make a full recovery."

At that news, the tears won. She clasped her hands over her mouth and let the tears wash away nearly all the stress and worry from her mind. All but a single thought. _Elena should have been here…_

* * *

The phone woke her. Diane jumped in surprise, her neck and upper back reacting negatively to the sudden movement. Sleeping with her head in her arms, leaning against Philip's beside, hadn't been the best move. However, she wasn't leaving his side for anything. Not until she knew for certain that he was going to make it. The doctors could talk about 'complete recovery' all they wanted, but she knew the facts. People died in hospitals all the time for random things.

Philip wasn't going to be a statistic.

Her phone rang again, and she glanced down at the number. Did a double-take as she recognized it, and jabbed viciously at the thing until the call connected.

"I've been trying to reach you since yesterday," she hissed, slipping as quietly as she could into the hallway."

"I know. I'm sorry."

Really? That's all Elena had to say? Two sentences comprised of all of two words? Diane closed her eyes, grasping the phone in both hands until the shaking stopped. Until she felt she could utter another word that wasn't going to erupt into a full on melt down.

"How is he?" Elena said into the gap.

"The doctor says he's going to be all right," she managed out, bringing the phone back to her ear. "He's just resting now. Are… are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine."

One sentence. Three words. At this point they were going to degenerate down to the final one word that would forever break their friendship. Like hell she would allow that to happen, not until she got to say everything that was currently stuck in the back of her throat. Not until she got to demand the answers to the questions. Important questions. If she could only phrase them without sounding like a lunatic.

"Thank God," Diane said… and couldn't bottle up the anger anymore. "Elena, where the hell are you?"

"Have you spoken to him? About what happened?"

She blinked, stared down at her phone. That sick feeling returned to her stomach. God, she had hoped—prayed—that it wasn't what she thought it was. But questions like that? How in the world could she think anything positive, anything other than Elena and her entire family was mixed up in something… dark?

And now she was dragging Philip down with her.

Like. Hell.

"Yes," she said, trying to keep her voice steady. Lying through her teeth. "He doesn't remember much. You should be here with him."

"Which hospital?"

That sick feeling got worse. "We're on the post-op floor, Mount Sinai Hospital, room 721."

Elena did her the favor of lying in return. "Be there as soon as I can."

"Sure."

The call disconnected, and the silence at the other end was somehow more final, more heartbreaking then that one friendship ending word. Still, Diane said it anyway.

"Good-bye."

* * *

Elena didn't show, and whether it was from a lack of caring on her part, or because whatever her family was mixed up with had taken all her time, it didn't matter. Twenty-four solid hours had passed without a sign, without a call, without a demand to know why she was standing there in Toronto General staring at a nurse who had no idea who Philip McAdams was, nevertheless why she thought he was a patient there. At least that would have been something. It would have shown that the love and friendship had been genuine.

Elena never showed.

It was somehow worse than a good-bye.

It made her realize that all she and her brother had been to Elena was a cover story, a way to prove to the world that Elena Michaels was just an ordinary girl with ordinary problems.

That was a lie. Just like everything Elena had ever told them.

"I just need a minute of your time, okay? A couple questions, and I'll be out of your hair," the police detective asked. "Walk me through what happened."

"All I remember were a couple of guys coming in," Philip answered, shaking his head.

The shake was more to signal Diane to stay in the chair and to keep her mouth shut than to collaborate his statement. She was glad that Detective Reyes's back was to her, so he couldn't see the look of offense covering her features. Just what did Philip think he was _doing_?

"Did you know or recognize them?"

"No."

"They didn't say what they wanted?"

"They jumped me as soon as they came in. I tried to put up a fight."

"I saw your place," Reyes said with a touch of approval. "You must have put up one hell of a fight. You got any idea why anyone would attack you in your home?"

"I don't have any enemies if that's what you're getting at."

Reyes nodded, pulling out a business card and leaving it on the side table. "If you remember anything, you call me."

Diane was out of that chair before the door finished closing behind Reyes. "You should have told him about the stalker you beat up at Elena's show."

"That stalker was one of the guys that attacked me in my apartment," he countered. "And keep your voice down."

She dialed down her volume… barely, and stalked over to his bedside. "Why didn't you tell the police that?"

"Because Elena and her family are involved in some kind of a mafia war."

Diane blinked… and then blinked again. The image of Clay nearly strangling that man in the car taking forefront in her imagination. _There's nothing stopping me from ending this war right now..._"How… how do you know this?"

"Elena told me yesterday."

Diane sat down hard on the side of his bed, the sick feeling not just returning to her stomach, but spreading throughout her body. Taking over limb and organ, coming suspiciously close to outright terror in her heart.

Philip took her hand in his, squeezing. "We have to keep this quiet, Diane. Do not tell Mom when she comes back."

"Why?" she whispered viciously. "Why are you still protecting Elena? Especially if it means putting yourself , and maybe our family, in jeopardy."

"Look at me," he squeezed her hand again. "Look where I am. I'm not saying anything _because _it's going to put us in jeopardy."

"Then you should know that I lied to Elena. I told her you were at a different hospital. I… I didn't know what was going on, and I… saw something, too. Outside of Elena's show, I saw Clay fighting with someone. It wasn't an argument, Philip. Clay literally had the man by the throat, threatening to kill him. I was afraid for you if she came here."

Philip closed his eyes, fatigue swallowing what little color he'd managed to regain since the surgery. "It's okay, Diane. She wouldn't have come anyway."

"What makes you say that?"

"Because she loves me, and as crazy as that sounds, it's the truth. She'll stay away if it means her enemies will stay away."

Diane leaned down, stroking his hair, fighting back the need to cry. "I don't believe that."

"It's the truth."

* * *

She waited until he fell asleep, until her mother returned to take over the watch, before she slipped out and made the call.

"Detective Reyes, this is Diane McAdams. I think my brother and I have pieced something together about the attack…"


	2. Investigations

Diane stared down at the glossy eight-by-ten and wondered why the police would bother to print out a photo of that size and clarity of a obvious madman. Of all the things that should be running through her mind, it was that stupid fleeting whimsy that latched hard onto her frontal lobe and wouldn't let go. That the police would waste tax dollars printing portrait quality photographs of people that should have been executed the moment they were captured. Executed by those they had wronged, their lives stripped away just as quickly as they had ruined the lives of their victims.

God, Elena… Her thoughts drifted backward to what felt like the last sane day of her life. To the bar where she and Elena had had early afternoon drinks, celebrating the selection of the perfect dress for Becky's wedding. Two men in off-the-rack suits had thought to have a little 'afternoon recreation' with Elena and herself, going so far as to buy them drinks and leave their room key on the tray.

Elena hadn't reacted well to that, and had returned the key with a few softly—but sharply—spoken words. The man had tried to grab her arm, and she'd nearly broken his in return. In a flashy display that had taken maybe a second, but had left that man nearly crying like a child, clutching his bruised arm.

_ "__What was that? I mean, there's usually only one reason women know that kind of self-defense."_

_"__Sometimes it's to prevent anything bad from happening.__Other times, it's to prevent those things from happening again.__The thing about bad families is they make it easy to know when you've landed in a good one."_

Now she knew what that convoluted collection of sentences really meant. A tiny part of her heart thawed at that, finally understanding just what Elena had tried to run from. And accidentally (or maybe on purpose?) drug them all into hell with her.

"Are… are you sure?" She asked, voice quavering, her fingertips hovering over the image. Eyes drawn to the red hair, the pasty skin with its sprinkling of freckles. "I mean, you're certain this man… did that to my friend?"

Detective Adrian Reyes nodded, his handsome face set in grim lines. "We're sure. His name is Victor Olsen, an American that delighted in abusing young girls. Your friend Elena Michaels was one of his victims. How he was selected for parole in that country is anyone's guess."

"How did he find her?"

The moment she asked, she knew it was a stupid question. Elena's face had been plastered all over the local art websites, thanks to her own pushing for publicity. There was hardly anyone better at rep'ing a new talent than Diane McAdams. And given that Elena was—as in 'had been,' past tense—her best friend, she'd stopped at nothing to ensure all media angles were covered.

All but dropping a literal trail of breadcrumbs for that bastard to follow.

"Internet," Reyes answered anyway, his tone gently professional. "Ms. Michaels was the prosecution's star witness against him. Guys like this, they don't change. Prolonged stays behind bars just make them meaner, nastier. Gives them more time to plot vengeance against those that put them away. Look, I know you were the hostess of Ms. Michael's opening gala, but you need to understand something. This wasn't your fault, okay? He would have come after her anywhere and at any time. You didn't cause this."

"I just made it easier for him to find her," she countered, the words tasting like ash on her tongue.

"Possibly," Reyes took her hands in his, squeezing lightly, speaking with gentle honesty. "However, you saved her life."

That caused her to pause, to glance upwards. "I… don't understand."

"He came at her in a public place, surrounded by dozens of witnesses, Ms. McAdams. There was no way he could have hurt her and gotten away with it."

"He found their apartment!"

"Did you print their home address on the fliers for the party?"

"Of course not," she jerked her hands away, affronted by the very thought of it. "I'm not an idiot."

Reyes met her gaze, held it with cool, steady, cop eyes. "Then don't treat yourself like one. You didn't contribute to the attack in the apartment. You didn't cause this. But you can help us end it. You can help us put this mongrel behind bars again where he belongs. _Canadian _bars this time, with no hope of ever getting out. Is there anything else you can remember? Snatches of conversation or destinations?"

Logan… she should tell him about Logan Jonsen. It was on the tip of her tongue, barely held in check by her sudden clamped teeth. Something inside her told her to shut the hell up, to not speak another word. Something primal that conjured images of savagery, and that nightmare of Clayton Danvers nearly strangling that man in the car… It wouldn't leave her alone, haunted what little sleep she managed.

Maybe Philip was right. Maybe she should count her blessings that they were all alive and just…

… just what? Run away? Vanish like Elena had? Pack up and move and pretend that a violent gang of killers hadn't tried to murder Philip and Elena in _their own apartment_? And if Elena was mixed up in some kind of mafia family, would it really end for them if they left Toronto? Would they be allowed to live at all, or would more psychopaths freshly released from prison continue to hunt them down thinking Elena was still with them?

God, Clay really would have killed that man if she hadn't interrupted. What did it say about her that she was willing to let that kind of violence continue in the world?

Reyes squeezed her hands again, letting go with one and offering her a wad of tissues. She hadn't realized she'd started crying again.

"Miss McAdams—"

"Diane. Please call me Diane. I've been 'Miss McAdam'ed' enough to last me a lifetime.

He nodded, a tiny smile on his lips. "Diane, then. Call me Adrian."

She took a deep breath. "Logan Jonsen."

Some of the gentleness left his tone, his eyes taking on that sterile, inquisitive cop expression. "The psychologist," he confirmed. "Cousin to Elena Michaels according to your brother's statement. What does he have to do with this?"

There was no going back now. "He was attacked, too. His house was a mess last time I saw it. Doors broken, things thrown about. There was blood on the floor… and Logan and Rachel are gone. I haven't been able to reach them."

"Okay," Adrian nodded, letting go of her hands after another comforting squeeze, and jotting down notes on a pad. "This is what I'm going to do. I'm going to send a unit to check out the Jonsen residence. In the meantime, I'm going to assign police protection to you and your family. What I need you to do is write down everything you've told me today."

He slid the pad and pen in her direction, and she winced. Philip wasn't going to like this at all. In fact, he was going to be absolutely furious with her.

"I don't think…"

She trailed off as he shook his head. "Ms. McAdams—Diane—I need you to trust me on this. If these people hit your brother's apartment to get at Elena Michaels, and then attacked her cousin and his girlfriend, this is larger than just a home invasion. While it's important to find Ms. Michaels and Mr. Jonsen, it's equally important to protect you and your family. Please, don't refuse the police protection."

"Stonehaven," Diane blinked back tears, and the feeling of betrayal swirling in her gut. "Elena went to this place called Stonehaven in New York on occasion. She said it was to visit family. Um, something about a cousin that was killed in a car accident there a few weeks ago."

"Stonehaven, New York. How did she get there? Plane, car, bus?"

"Train, I think. It's only a couple hours south the boarder, at least close enough to leave Toronto in the morning and arrive safely in the late afternoon. I think she might be there now."

He rose to his feet. "I'll look into it. I'll have someone bring you something to eat while the protection detail is assembled. Promise me you won't leave until I give you the go-ahead."

"I… promise."

He left. There was nothing more she could say to that, and so she began to write.

* * *

Detective Adrian Reyes pushed back from his desk and ran a hand over his eyes. He was tired, the ache between his eyes and his shoulder blades reminding him that wasn't young anymore. Not exactly old enough to be put to pasture, however not quite young enough to skip meals and spend all night scanning reports on his computer. Fifteen years on the force pointed out that he could have passed this kind of work off to a rookie. Intuition made him hesitate, made him want to glance through the records, himself.

Because something wasn't clicking with this case, something more than a home invasion gone wrong or a simple convict wanting revenge on the girl that put him away.

Something that outright bothered the hell out him.

He leaned back until he heard his spine give that comforting _snap, crackle, pop!_, rolling his neck on his shoulders until everything felt loose and limber once again. Midnight had come and gone, long hours after his shift had ended, after he had sent Diane McAdams home with a police escort. He'd lead the team that searched the Jonsen homestead, and what he'd found had lead to more questions than answers.

The place was clean. Perfectly clean. As in no evidence of a fight. No markings on any of the doors or windows that denoted forced entry. Mostly because every lock on every door was brand new, so new in fact that the crime scene investigation team couldn't find a microgram of shaved metal indicating a key had ever entered that lock in the first place. Some of the window glass was also freshly replaced. Hell, there had been an aroma of fresh paint in the air the moment the door had opened.

No signs of a struggle. No shattered items to collaborate Diane's story.

No blood pools or splatter.

No scuffs or pock-marks on the flooring.

No goddamn _fingerprints._

None.

Not for Logan Jonsen, or Rachel Sutton. No clothing in the closets or dressers. All the furniture and carpeting had been steam cleaned and was damp to the touch. The sheets on the bed still sported the fold lines from when they'd been pulled out of the fucking packaging. No personal photographs of any kind.

Nothing to state that Mr. Jonsen or Ms. Sutton had ever lived in that house. But he knew, deep in his gut, that they had. Someone had gotten to that place hours before his team. Someone with extensive knowledge of forensic science, and they had sanitized that house down to its foundation. Bleach in all the sinks and on all surfaces to kill any hope of DNA and fingerprint evidence. New paint on walls to do the same.

Whoever they were or whatever they were into, Logan and Rachel were either in the wind… or dead. Either way, someone wanted to ensure they stayed 'disappeared' for good.

He scrubbed his hands through his hair, reached for the cup of coffee long empty and brought it to his mouth on reflex. Hoping a single drop of liquid awareness would brush his lips and give him the energy to continue. Not so much of a whiff of coffee hit him and he cursed silently, crumpling the paper cup and landing a three point basket into the trash.

At least that was something he landed without issue this day. So far his calls to this Bear Valley, NY, the location of this fabled Stonehaven estate that Diane had mentioned, had gone unanswered. The local PD there was up in arms with its own high profile investigation. Some American serial killer named Thomas LeBlanc had struck hard in that sleepy little town, and Feds were crawling all over it. No one had time to answer questions about a Toronto girl he believed to be hiding out in their midst, especially if there wasn't an extradition order already signed and sealed requesting it.

He'd been told his request would be 'looked into' when they had a moment to breathe.

Typical American cops, he shook his head in disgust. Always thinking Canadians were somehow less violent, less dangerous than their own criminals.

"Go home," Jenna de Montbard said, glancing up from the desk across from him. "Sleep."

"Sleep is for the weak, next week," he retorted, fighting the yawn that was threatening to crack his jaw wide open. "And since it's always this week, it's never next week."

She spared him a slight smile, having heard that particular line over and over again. "Adrian, seriously. There's nothing in those files that you'll find tonight. Go home. Take a nap or whatever. Come at it with fresh eyes in the morning."

"You first."

Jenna laughed darkly. "We aren't talking about me. We're talking about you. Now go make me a hypocrite and do what I'm not willing to do."

"I could order you home."

She snorted. "Not likely. You may be the senior detective in this squad, but you aren't my mama. Only she has that power when I've got a strong case."

"Should I call your mama?"

"Should I shoot you before you try?"

"Touché," he chuckled, lifting his hands to show they were nowhere near his phone. Detective Jenna de Montbard was known for having the best aim on the team. "I'm going."

"Really?"

He stood, yanking his jacket off the back of his chair. "I didn't say where I was going, only that I was going."

Jenna shook her head. "Make certain you log your location with Central. If you aren't going to do right and sleep, and least do crazy the proper way."

"Right. I'm heading to the McAdam's crime scene. There's something about this case that isn't clicking, and I'm thinking the answers are there."

"Has CSI released the scene to you?"

"Nope. I don't think they've reached it yet. They're backlogged as much as we are."

"Reyes, don't. You don't want to trample your own evidence. I'm telling you, go home and go to sleep. If the techs find your boot prints all over that place, it isn't going to go well for you with the brass."

He spared her a wan smile, fishing a pair of disposable crime scene booties from a drawer in his desk and waving them at her. "Yes, mama."

She sighed, shook her head, and looked back to her computer. "I don't want to know. I seriously don't want to know."

"That's why we're partners," he said, playful sarcasm thick in his tone. "You've always got my back."

Her answer was in the form of the bird, and his laugher was the only goodbye.

* * *

Crime scene tape across the door was as far as the CSI's had made it in this case. Adrian did his best not to roll his eyes in annoyance. Budget cuts across the city were responsible for the backlog, his own department feeling the squeeze as much as any. Yet it was hard to cut the science geeks any slack, not when fresh cases were forced to go cold due to waiting on crime scene evidence. Frustration made for the worst sort of coworkers.

He ducked beneath the tape, sliding a pair of tiny metal picks into the door lock. The CSI's had the key that Diane had surrendered, so he had to make do with what he had. An illegal entry into a scene he had every right to visit, but no procedural authority to enter.

"Sometimes rules need to be broken," he murmured, casting an eye across the hall before slipping on the booties and into the apartment.

He'd seen bad before. Lots of broken items, blood pools, dead bodies. But never anything like this in the nice section of Toronto. The cheapest apartment in this building cost more than he made in a year—and that was just to rent, not to purchase. No, the scene before him looked like something out of a bad action movie. Anything that could have been shattered was. Anything that couldn't sported dents, screaming loudly that it had served as an improvised weapon.

Only the glass wall that separated the living room from the balcony of this penthouse apartment stood untouched.

And instantly he knew why the case was hard to pin down. Someone was lying to him, either the brother or the sister.

This wasn't caused by a man of Philip's strength fighting off two random attackers. Not unless said attackers were hopped up on crack. Even then, there was no way fending off two crackheads with a knife had caused this much damage. Flashlight in hand, he walked the room. Pinpointing where the fight had started over by the kitchen, following the damage through the room as it most likely occurred. And frowned.

The path of destruction separated, becoming two distinct pools of violence. In cases like the one Philip described, the PoD was blatantly evident and continuous. There were no breaks, no areas free of debris that marked where a fight had stopped for some reason and kicked up again elsewhere. This showed a clear demarcation where the fighting had split into two separate groupings. Unless one of the two attackers had suddenly manifested multiple personalities and started pounding on himself, there were more than three people involved in this fight.

If Adrian had to put money on odds, it would be at least four people, and all male.

He lifted the flashlight, his gaze touching the walls. Guessing that the tallest assailant was around his own height, topping off around six-three. Nothing above that level was damaged, and some of the lower divots in the wall looked vaguely back-of-skull shaped. Meaning Six-Three had fought someone shorter than him, and had tried to plant his face in the wall repeatedly. The way the items in the floor-to-ceiling shelving unit in the center of the room were shattered indicated that the attacker hadn't liked the face-wall treatment and returned the favor by shoving Six-Three into anything that hurt.

But that was just Fight One, as he mentally labeled it. Fight Two had involved Philip, his blood painting the floor all the signal Adrian needed to know who fought who.

Fight Two involved a blade, the amount of scarlet in the foyer and trailing down the hall matching the doctor's report on Philip's injury. Gut wounds bled like a sonovabitch and hurt enough to incapacitate. Philip had clawed his way down the hall, the small splatters on the walls highlighting where the second attacker had tormented him the whole way. The sick bastard had planned on taking his time with Philip, apparently, pushing him on to the bedroom.

Closing the door for a little privacy, or so the lack of splatter on the front of it told him.

He pushed open the door with his elbow, carefully surveying the handiwork. Or rather, the mutilated handiwork. Not a minute into the surveillance and he found them.

"Hello," he whistled, bending down to examine the digits.

Two fingers, the index and middle most likely, gruesomely severed where they should have met a hand, lay front and center of the horror show. A rather nice spray of blood on the back of the door letting him know the severing had been painful and messy. The cast off of EMT gauzes and packaging surrounded the end of the blood trail, pinpointing where Philip had made his last stand.

Adrian frowned anew, whipping the flashlight from the blood trail, it's end point, and back to the severed appendages again. And then to the walls and furnishings in the room. There was no way Philip could have staunched that wound enough to allow him to rise up and confront Sick Bastard without dropping more blood along the way. Likewise, if Sick Bastard had stood over Philip and—what? Wait patiently while Philip gnawed the guy's fingers off?

No, if Philip had performed the impromptu amputation, he would have bled more. Or there would be cast off in the opposite direction of the bedroom door. Sick Bastard had obviously headed that way after being relieved of his digits. The blood smears on the door alone proved that. Meaning…

Meaning that perhaps Ms. Michaels has been there after all. Hiding perhaps?

He crossed the room, found the towel dropped by the chair. The bloody towel that looked dropped in haste. A quick once-over of the bathroom netted him tiny droplets of blood, and unless he was totally out of his mind, they looked scattered. Like a dog had shaken himself clean in there.

Philip nor Diane had bothered to mention a dog. And if one had bitten Sick Bastard while defending its master, why weren't there bloody paw prints to match? Seemed rather odd to wipe away paw prints and take both the dog and the girl. _If_ Elena Michaels was indeed missing. _If_ she had been kidnapped. _If _Philip was holding back that detail as part of some ransom demand.

That was an awful lot of 'if's' without any concrete evidence to back them up.

He snatched his phone from his back pocket, snapping pictures before using a handkerchief to carefully turn the severed extremities around. Snapping close-ups of the fingerprints, and then positioning the evidence back as it had been when he found it. Hopefully Sick Bastard had a record somewhere, and he'd have a name and face to hunt when the dawn rose.


End file.
